The Bowman Bends His Steel

Painful penetration

shrinks the will

to be easy

and underneath the briar

lies curled

a mammal

struck down by mute

sensation.

 

In the sky fly

ark-like ravens

coasting downwind

until passed over

by hurrying cumulus masses.

 

And the bowman bends his steel

for his arched recklessness tenses

until the poignant posture

stretches into elastic fright

that the shot might misfire

and the destination be missed.

 

The bowman bends his steel

braced to kill time

as miasmic pleasure

creeps up the spine

tingling every nerve

into latent wakefulness

waiting for the moment

when the ritual space of the body

bursts into chorus

of celebration

that can only mean

memory has become extinct in the membrane

and only now is time passing.

 

The bowman bends his steel

fraught yet aching for the ancient

origin of archery

in its pristine streak

marking the end.

 

And over again

temperatures rise

mercurial elixir feeds the feast

of hailed arch-enemies

who kiss each other

on the lips

and know the purpose

of their posture adopted

in those times.

 

Peeling away the skin

fruit lays bare its juices

virtuoso lip sipping

into cinquefoil trips

down plane tree avenues

of dusty heat

and the song remained

poised in the wind

blowing through leaves until the rustle mystified

all forms of life

which were dormant

as they shrieked awake

and screeched their delight

of hoping-to-see-more-than-ever-before.

 

The bowman bends his steel

unencumbered

the simple arched back

radiating heat.

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